


Masquerade

by sneetchstar



Series: Verona Society [1]
Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Masquerade Ball, One Shot, vaguely Halloween because costumes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 15:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12585408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: A masked man at the ball seems determined to gain Rosaline's attention, if not affection.  AU where people are still alive and Ros & Ben never got betrothed.  Written for Halloween, but not really Halloween-y.





	Masquerade

“May I have this dance?”

The voice is vaguely familiar, and Rosaline turns. Unfortunately, she finds herself staring into a mask, which is disappointing but appropriate, given that she is at the annual Royal Masquerade Ball.

“Very well,” she answers, placing her gloved hand in his. As she follows him to the floor, she takes note of the rest of his costume and begins to chuckle.

“May I ask what amuses you?” he asks, placing his hand on her waist.

“Did you choose to dance with me because of my costume?” she returns, her gaze lifting to the two horns coming out of the top of his head. They track lower, over the red mask with its permanently arched eyebrow. His mouth and chin are uncovered, but she can tell his beard has been tinted darker and coaxed into a point. His clothing is red and appears to be of very fine quality. She wonders if he has a tail, but dares not look.

“What better dance partner for the Devil than a beautiful angel?” he counters, spinning her away, admiring how her white gown flows around her slender body, the gold details glinting in the candlelight. Her hair falls in an ebony cascade down her back, and when she faces him once more, he sees only a gold mask with a fixed beatific countenance above her own plump lips, painted gold. Perched atop her head is a halo covered in some type of downy white feathers.

Her gold gloved hand back in his, he pulls her closer, so close that it is almost improper.

Rosaline can smell him at this distance. He smells pleasantly spicy-sweet and masculine, with just a hint of the horse that was surely his transportation this evening.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he comments after a moment.

“Thank you. As are you,” she answers. Then, growing brave, she asks, “Your voice is a bit familiar, signor. Do we know each other?”

He says nothing, simply moving closer still to say in a low murmur that is almost seductive, “I know who you are, Lady Rosaline.”

She pulls back, affronted, but does not wish to draw unnecessary attention and provoke the ire of her aunt. “Well, then, it is only fair that you tell me who you are,” she crossly says. “I do not like being at a disadvantage.”

Much to her annoyance, he laughs. “Indeed you do not. I know this to be true,” he answers, clearly enjoying himself.

“Tell me your name or release me,” she demands.

He drops his hands just as the song ends.

Rosaline hates herself for the disappointment she feels. “Thank you for the dance, signor,” she says, drops a hasty curtsey, and stalks from the dance floor.

He simply stares after her, watching her walk away.

xXx

“Wine, my lady?”

It’s that same voice again, and this time Rosaline doesn’t turn around. She wishes for the thousandth time that she was the one home with a stomach ailment instead of Livia.

She turns and reluctantly takes it. “Thank you,” she replies. “You still aren’t going to tell me who you are, are you?” she asks.

He angles his head. “Mmm… not just yet,” he answers. “I wanted to ask you for another dance, but I did not think you would accept.”

She smiles. “Well, you’re smart, I’ll give you that.” She takes a sip of her wine, then asks, “Are you from Verona or visiting?”

“Well, since I know you, and you did say my voice is familiar, I think you already know the answer. You are trying to trick me into giving something away,” he answers.

“So you are from Verona,” she concludes, then turns to look at him. She already knows his beard is tinted, she could see that when they danced. She tries to see his eyes through the holes in the mask, but it is too dark to make out their color. Not that it would help if she could.

“Yes.” His uncharacteristically straight answer takes her by surprise. He smiles. “Our paths have crossed, but not often.”

“Have we any acquaintances in common?” she asks, knowing she is pressing her luck.

“A few,” he answers, and the smirk curling his nicely-shaped and fairly full lips (not that she’s noticing that detail) tells her that he is not going to elaborate.

“Are you always this uncooperative?” she huffs.

“Some people think so,” he answers, his voice much more serious than she was expecting, and it throws her.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anythi—”

“I know,” he interjects, taking the opportunity to take her hand, now no longer gloved, in his, since she had raised it in apology. He lightly brushes his lips across her knuckles. “Do not trouble yourself over it, dear Capulet. ’Tis my burden to bear.”

This flummoxes her further. “You are a puzzle, signor,” she finally says with a sigh. Motion off to one side catches her eye and she turns away, taking another drink of her wine. When she moves to face him again, he is gone. She huffs and shakes her head, then decides to go off in search of Juliet and her annoying husband.

xXx

“Are you following me, signor?” she asks. She had stepped out into the garden palazzo to get some fresh air, avoid her family (and the prince), and try to alleviate her boredom, and had hoped not to be disturbed.

When she hears footsteps approaching, a quick glance confirms her suspicions, but that’s all she gives him.

“You are difficult to miss, my lady,” he answers, materializing just behind her. He lifts his hand in front of her, offering the rose he undoubtedly picked from one of the bushes nearby.

She reluctantly takes it. “And why is that?” she asks, turning around to face him.

“You are the only one in a white gown,” he simply answers.

She makes a quiet “ugh” sound and rolls her eyes.

He chuckles, then adds, “You have captured my interest this evening. I cannot seem to take my eyes off of you.” He bravely reaches up and traces her lower lip, its gold paint now faded, with his thumb. “These lips are what gave you away, by the way,” he softly admits. “They haunt my dreams.”

She gapes at him, momentarily stunned, his gentle touch burning into her. Then she pulls away from him and demands, “Then tell me who you are, for the love of all that is holy!”

He slumps a bit, his confidence flagging for the first time. He looks away. “I have enjoyed our brief interactions a great deal, and I fear if I tell you, you will not like what you learn.”

“You are a Montague then,” she guesses. _But which one?_ “Can you not at least give me a hint?”

“We disagree about everything, save one item,” he says after a moment.

“That isn’t much help,” she mutters.

“I imagine not, as you have somewhat of a reputation for being…”

“A strong woman, who is not afraid to stand up for what is right,” she supplies.

“I was going to say ‘argumentative,’ but let us go with your assessment,” he allows, smiling.

“What is the one item on which we agree?” she asks, her curiosity making her draw closer to him.

He thinks for a long moment. “There was a recent event to which we were both opposed,” he says.

He took so long to answer that Rosaline began to think he wasn’t going to. She thinks, absently ducking her head to bury her nose in the rose that he had given her, inhaling its scent. _Recent event. We were both opposed to it._ She begins to think she has had too much wine, because her mind is blank. “We were both at this event?”

“Yes.”

She looks at him, leaning in as close as she dares, as close as he allows. Nearly close enough to kiss. Her gaze flicks again to his lips, and she unconsciously bites her lower lip.

“We were the only two present apart from the main participants,” he whispers, apparently wanting her to guess.

She gasps. “Benvolio,” she whispers. “But—”

He cuts off her words with his lips, pressing them to hers in an impulsive kiss. Surprising them both, she returns the kiss, her eyes drifting closed as she melts into him.

He slowly pulls away, smiling as she briefly chases his lips with hers.

When she opens her eyes a moment later, he is gone.

xXx

When Rosaline wakes the next morning, she finds her balcony door slightly ajar. She looks around, wondering if someone had been in her room overnight, but then remembers she locked her door.

She puts on her dressing gown and slowly walks to the balcony. She gingerly pushes the door further open.

The balcony appears empty. She walks out and looks around, puzzled. “Perhaps I did leave it open,” she says to herself as she turns around.

Then she sees the bunch of roses resting in one corner, set against the building so as to be mostly out of sight.

She bends and picks it up. They are just beginning to wilt, but salvageable if she gets them into water soon.

She carries them inside, her fingers absently rubbing the note tied to them as she walks.

She knows who it is from, but she reads it anyway.

_Thank you for a most enjoyable and memorable evening.  
-B._

_P.S. Your lips will haunt my dreams even more now that I know the taste of them._


End file.
